Bai Ziyi had invited him, even stressing he was her first Ark friend.

Without that ticket with Mengxi, he’d have just gone.

But now, if he refused her and later attended with Mengxi, running into her at the venue? How awkward.

He could already picture it.

Poor handling would make this a real, if small, problem.

After thinking it over, he decided to decline Bai Ziyi.

He’d promised Mengxi first. Ditching her for another girl? He’d despise himself.

After his polite refusal, her replies visibly drooped with disappointment.

Even Yun Mingxin wondered—did he have that much charm?

A wild thought struck him: Could she like him?

Unlikely. What did he deserve?

Having Zhan Mengxi’s affection was blessing enough; he didn’t dare hope for a white-haired girl.

Besides, he wasn’t dating anytime soon. No need to flatter anyone.

This thought eased his mind. He’d make it up to her later.

Time to write.

Yun Mingxin became a heartless typing machine.

In the villa, Bai Ziyi closed her laptop, replaying their chat.

No flaws—she’d planned for both replies.

His refusal was expected; he’d never skip comic con.

Alone, he wouldn’t have rejected her so fast. Zhan Mengxi, that immature brat, must’ve booked him first.

She’d made her tone sound low; he couldn’t ignore it.

Why, as a heiress, had she fallen for Yun Mingxin?

He wasn’t the gentle, Japanese-style "yasashii" type. He returned kindness twofold and never started trouble.

Small gestures moved him easily—a trait in his novels.

Her harmless self wouldn’t annoy him.

He rarely got angry but didn’t accept people lightly.

Once he did, you felt the difference.

Like warm water after piano practice, when her fingers ached.

Or his earnest gaze when she shared troubles.

Few girls resisted his refined tenderness.

Who could refuse affection meant for just one?

Bai Ziyi sensed the world differed from her memories.

Maybe her past came from a parallel universe.

This world’s path had changed.

But give up Yun Mingxin?

No. She couldn’t let this boy go.

He was her unique warmth.

She’d make him fall for her—in every sense.

A beauty icy to strangers but fiery to lovers? That carnivore couldn’t resist.

"Time to buy new clothes," she murmured.

Bai Ziyi swiped open her phone and started online shopping.

Unaware of her worries, Yun Mingxin puzzled over something else.

Not writing—the top-tier tycoon Lady Ji had gifted him again, half a million cash worth.

Her private message read:

"Dear author, thank you for your novel. My biggest worry is always wearing a mask. I’m so tired."

"Duty forces me to study hard, train rigorously, and sacrifice time for gains."

"Learning Chinese felt like discovering the world’s most beautiful language—it led me to you."

"Your characters radiate unique charm, especially Qian-chan. She showed me another self—a beautiful, enviable version."

"I learned to feel moved, to support. Sorry for tipping late; moving cash there is hard. Your book is amazing. I’ve a small gift and hope to meet you."

This confused Yun Mingxin deeply.

Between the lines: she wasn’t local, and wanted to meet?

Impossible—he’d never shared his info.

Plenty wished he’d sell razor blades to survive.

Thanks to Lady Ji, his monthly earnings might hit a million. With his spending—mostly game-wife outfits—he’d be worry-free for a decade.

He wanted to help but didn’t know how.

Tell her to relax? Say her worries were luxurious?

Never having walked her path, he’d never judge. That felt like armchair advice.

He could only silently support her.

Meeting her? He allowed a small hope.

After finishing the chapter, he checked the time.

Still early.

He opened Steam, called friends, and dove back into gaming.

In the school office, Kujou Yukihime typed the last word.

Her desktop showed the QQ icon, nickname—Lady Ji.

"Lady Yukihime" was a title she disliked. "Lady Ji" mocked herself daily.

She wasn’t consistent; human, not a machine.

Her high IQ’s only gift was learning Chinese.

Chinese literary depth was world-class—you felt an author’s intent.

That’s why five thousand years of culture thrived.

Once, she’d read Yun Mingxin’s novel by chance.

That restrained Japanese girl, Chinako—wasn’t she a mirror?

But in the story, Chinako had a beautiful other side.

Seeing another self was impossible not to feel.

Then, in a dark place, the story inspired her.

She regained vigor, worked hard to gain influence.

She didn’t believe in fate, but in destiny.

Meeting an author whose story moved her seemed near-impossible.

Like winning the lottery—tiny odds, yet 100% when it’s you.

Since then, she dreamed of seeing the person who wrote emotions like flowing water.